


Three Queens the Eldar never had

by Kaz



Series: High Queen Idril [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz/pseuds/Kaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"So." Idril decides to put the conclusion she knows they have all arrived at in words. "We appear to have run out of heirs to the crown of the Noldor."</em>
</p><p>Three AUs for the Noldor, the Sindar, the Vanyar... and the women who might have ruled them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noldor

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on Tumblr during Legendarium Ladies' April 2014.

Some days after the refugees of Gondolin have arrived in Sirion, with enough time having passed that all of them are at least provisionally settled, there is a meeting.

Oropher graciously allows them the use of one of the halls in the central building the Sindar had built as a place for meetings and governance. Idril almost wishes he had not, because the size of it makes their small number all too apparent. She finds herself not even minding that he invites himself along - it is a Noldorin issue, true, but the decision they reach will affect the Sindar as well… and besides, his presence makes the large room seem at least _slightly_ less empty.

At the centre of the room is a table. On it, glowing in the sunlight streaming in from the window, rests the crown of the High King of the Noldor.

Everyone stares at it.

"So." Idril decides to put the conclusion she knows they have all arrived at in words. "We appear to have run out of heirs to the crown of the Noldor."

Finduilas nods. "My father and brother died in Nargothrond," she says, voice quiet. "My grandfather Angrod and his brother Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, and Uncle Finrod - well," her face twists, "thanks to that song of Daeron’s, everyone in Beleriand can tell you how _he_ died. The last I heard, my great-aunt Galadriel was still alive, but other than that… the only one left on that side of the family is me."

Idril can see the lines of grief on her face. Little wonder, considering the litany of her lost. Idril knows she too should grieve for her lost cousins, but as she can either barely remember or never even met the men she has to admit herself more vexed at their deaths than anything else. If only one of them had survived, they would not be in this situation. Could not Angrod have fled from Dorthonion, or Finellach have evaded the dragon in Nargothrond?

A line of thought that is not just nasty - blaming them for dying! - but thoroughly useless, since things are as they are and must be dealt with as such. Idril puts it out of her mind, focusing instead on the fact that it is now her turn.

Silly, really to state these things when everyone knows them. Still, Idril has the wild, irrational hope that she might have somehow missed someone, that one of the other people present will remind her of some uncle or cousin who kept their head so far down that she had entirely forgotten their existence. She suspects Finduilas felt similarly.

"Fingolfin died in the Dagor Bragollach," Idril says, "his son Argon in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, Fingon in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and-" a lump in her throat; she forces herself to speak past it, "my father and cousin in Gondolin. My aunt died there as well, years before. The only ones left of Fingolfin’s line are myself and Eärendil."

Silence.

No forgotten relatives, then. Pity.

Finduilas shakes her head. "Father used to tell me of how it had been in Valinor," she says. "All of Finwë’s sons and grandsons jockeying for position. Who would have ever thought it would come to this?"

Idril shrugs. She does not remember those days well at all, and in any case such reflection is also useless right now. They can laugh over the irony once they have worked out what to _do_. "Well, it hardly matters," she says briskly. "What now?"

There are a number of awkward looks.

"Celebrimbor?" Finduilas suggests, sounding tentative. "You’re in the male line, and… not a Kinslayer, so-"

Celebrimbor backs away from the crown on the table as if it were a poisonous snake. "Please tell me you’re joking!" He sounds horrified.

Idril shakes her head. "Quite apart from the fact that crowning anyone descended from Fëanor means we’d have civil war in Sirion within the day, it sets a terrible precedent," she points out. "Maedhros gave the crown to Fingolfin, remember? He disqualified the line of Fëanor as heirs to the kingship." _And,_ she thinks viciously, _if he and his pack of brothers had just wandered into a horde of Balrogs straight after that, they’d have saved us a_ lot _of trouble._ "Either they are still disinherited, in which case Celebrimbor has as much claim as… as Oropher," she nods at the Sinda, who looks rather appalled at the suggestion, "or we say the circumstances make it invalid, that lack of a heir in any other line means the kingship reverts to Fëanor’s. In which case the crown should go to Maedhros."

Winces all around at _that_ idea.

"If I understand the situation correctly," Oropher says, his voice casual, pretending none of this matters to him in the slightest, "should the crown not go to… Finarfin, was his name? After all, he is alive-"

"-as far as we know," Finduilas mutters.

"-and next in line - in fact, only one in line - to inherit," Oropher continues doggedly. "This makes him the obvious choice, no?"

Finduilas laughs, sound sharp and wild and broken. "So the crown goes to him! And how do you propose we _get_ it to him?" She jabs a finger at it where it sits on the table. "Carrier pigeon? Stick it in a bottle and throw that into the Sea? We should probably attach a letter! _Dear Finarfin, so sorry, everyone else has died so this is yours now. Hope you make for a decent king, not that we’ll ever know._ "

Oropher puts a hand on her shoulder. Finduilas subsides.

"It seems to me," Celebrimbor remarks, "that the issue is this: the Noldor need a leader. Unlike before, the laws of inheritance don’t provide us with one. I mean, I’m certain we could devise some ceremony to crown Finarfin _in absentia,_ as it were, but a king in Valinor doesn’t solve the problem. So why not relax the laws?" Celebrimbor is becoming more animated as he gets into his argument. "They were created in Valinor, they were never intended for a situation like this one. The Sindar allow men to inherit through the female line-"

"-if you want to crown Eärendil king, my _seven-year-old son,_ you are going to have to go through me-"

"-so perhaps your husband, Idril?" Celebrimbor makes the switch so smoothly Idril almost believes this was what he’d been planning to say all along. "As Turgon’s son-in-law? He…"

Celebrimbor looks at Tuor and trails off.

On the march to Sirion, there had been little time for such luxuries as shaving, and so Idril’s husband currently sports a full beard. Idril likes the feel of it, but has to admit that it makes Tuor look a profoundly unlikely High King of the Noldor. Oropher seems like a plausible candidate in comparison.

Tuor coughs. "I don’t know much about any of this," he says diffidently. "However… do you really think the Noldor would prefer being ruled by one of the Secondborn to being ruled by a woman?" Awkward silence. He continues, voice steadier. "Why not just make Idril queen?"

Idril swallows a groan as everyone looks at her. She’d known this was the best solution, but some small selfish part of her had hoped they would come up with something else. Tuor shoots her a sharp glance.

"It’s the best idea any of us have come up with," Celebrimbor says slowly.

"None of the Sindar will take issue." Oropher is leaning back in his chair, pose casual but eyes intent on Idril. "My people like you. The parallels to Lúthien are… helpful with that."

"You’re already leader of the Gondolindrim," Finduilas points out. "And the daughter of the last High King, too. It fits very well."

"I’d face so much opposition," Idril tries. "Letting women inherit-"

"Oh, pshht." Finduilas waves her argument aside. "Who are they going to say should be ruling in your place? Finarfin? Eärendil? Tuor? Besides…" Her smile is ever-so-slightly too wide. "We don’t have many loremasters left, do we? Nor books that came from Valinor. We can claim the law was always this way and it simply never came up before."

"I’m friends with Pengolodh," Tuor offers. "I’m sure he’d be able to find precedent… or," he gives Finduilas a nod, "if needs be, invent it."

And just like that, it seems things have been decided. Idril heaves an inward sigh. Selfish wish of hers to be spared this or no, she herself had not been able to think of any other option. The Noldor need a leader, and Idril is the only one in any position to provide.

No one stops her when she reaches for the crown on the table. It lies heavy and cold in her hands as she turns it, the jewels winking like tiny fires. Somehow - cruelly - it has survived the disaster around it unscathed, sat on five men’s heads and seen them slain without receiving so much as a scratch. Now it is Idril’s, and as she holds it she can feel the future shift, feel fate coiling around her.

"So be it," she says, and the words feel like a pronouncement of doom.


	2. Sindar

All eyes are on Lúthien as she walks towards the great throne on the dais.

It look so very wrong - empty, with the full court gathered around it when her father would never have allowed it to be convened without his presence. Lúthien finds herself almost wanting to dash out to look for him, thinking he must have forgotten or become sidetracked and he will be beside himself to realise that he is late-

Except that if she does, she will not find him. Not in his study, nor his bedchamber, not in the library, not in the inner hallway where the columns are shaped into beeches and the ceiling is inlaid with gems like stars where he always went when he did not wish to be found. No, Lúthien’s father lies buried in the forest above. Lúthien has seen his grave - a green mound on which niphredil blooms in white stars, planted by her mother and watered by her tears, Melian’s last act before she fled Middle-earth forever.

When she had stared at Námo and demanded _Give me the Gift of Men, so that I may follow Beren when he dies_ and the Doomsman had bowed his head and granted it, she’d thought that she was condemning her parents to lose her. It seems absurd that she should have lost them first.

Lúthien reaches the dais and stops. For a moment, she does not want to go on - wants to flee this place, her childhood home so dreadfully changed, flee back to Ossiriand and pretend none of this has happened.

She glances to the side to see Beren there. His hair is all white now, wrinkles lining his face, but the sight of him gives her as much strength as ever.

Lúthien seats herself on the throne, Beren by her side, and ever after people will say that in that moment the Silmaril around her neck shone brighter.

(Lúthien thinks: the throne, made to fit Elu Thingol himself, is far too large for her. She needs to perch uncomfortably on the very edge of the seat so that her feet do not dangle.)

The first of her new subjects to approach her is one of the Marchwardens.

"Your Majesty," she says, and Lúthien has to keep herself from looking around to see who she is talking to, "all the patrols have reported back. There are no enemies remaining in Doriath."

Lúthien nods to the Marchwarden as whispers rise in the watching crowd. She knows what they are speaking of, knows she needs to address it directly.

"Thank you," she says. "You and the rest of Doriath’s guards have done well. We are safe again." A pause. "For now."

Absolute silence in the room. Every eye is fixed on her.

Again, Lúthien glances at her husband. Beren’s hair is all white, his wrinkles deepen every day. The hour of his death grows nearer and nearer, Lúthien knows, and her death comes hand-in-hand with it, close as lovers. She does not regret her decision and knows she never will, but it means that her reign as Queen will be short.

She will make sure it is also _eventful._

"The Girdle is gone." Lúthien speaks the words that are so prominent in everyone’s minds. "The protection we have relied on for so long is gone. Once they hear of it, our enemies will expect us to be cowering in fear… will think we do not know how to defend ourselves without its magic. Will see us as ripe for the picking."

Angry murmurs follow her words. The proud Iathrim are insulted that they should be thought weak.

With one hand, Lúthien touches the jewel at her neck. She can feel power in it - the power of the great Trees whose light it contains, the power of Elbereth herself who blessed it. Power that seeps out from it and into Lúthien, now the only one this side of the Sea who can use it in full. So much power it frightens her - so much power she had planned to spend the rest of her now-mortal life in Ossiriand, in quiet bliss with her family without need for great magics and enchantment, the Silmaril a mere trinket.

But then her father died, and then her mother left, the Girdle falling without her, and Lúthien knew what she must do.

"This is a good thing." Lúthien smiles a smile full of terrible promise. "Because it means we can take them by surprise."

Again, silence. She has shocked them.

A voice from the crowd: "Are you suggesting we attack Morgoth?" There is disbelief in it, but less than Lúthien had expected. Being legendary has its advantages.

"No," Lúthien says. "Morgoth will keep. My mother spoke to me of how the Girdle works, you see," she continues quickly, before any can grow outraged at her flippancy. "The part that keeps Morgoth far from us is separate from the rest, and not contingent on her presence the way the rest of the Girdle was. Now that that is gone, he may be able to find a way around it… but it will take time, and require him to put a great deal of trust in his lieutenants - something he is not very good at."

Lúthien touches the Silmaril again and thinks, _And I have my own plans for Morgoth yet._

But those audacious ideas are for the future. First…

She catches the eye of Dior, in the crowd. Her son - so like her in face, yet she can see the subtle trace of Beren in his features and demeanour, living proof of their love. _Eluchil,_ is his after-name, and King he will be once Lúthien is gone. Nimloth stands by his side, little Elwing is sitting on his shoulders - Dior must have boosted her up so she could get a better view. Lúthien’s family, Lúthien’s heirs, who will be forced to deal with any loose ends Lúthien leaves behind.

The last time she saw Celegorm, the look on his face was one of pure, murderous hatred. She had beaten him, outwitted him, stolen his best friend from him (and would do it again in the blink of an eye) - made a fool of him in every possible way. That last, men like Celegorm cannot forgive… and she would not put it past him to seek out revenge on her son rather than on Lúthien herself.

And, of course, there is the Oath.

(Lúthien is not planning to leave any loose ends.)

"No," she repeats. "There is another enemy who will seek to take advantage of our weakness…"

And then Lúthien speaks the words that will go down in history:

"The Sons of Fëanor."


	3. Vanyar

Ingwê is gone.

Ndissê stares into the campfire with distant eyes. Instead of bright flames, she sees dark forests, pools of shadow beneath the trees, the starlight filtering only faintly through the branches.

Once upon a time, that had not meant _danger._

Ingwê had been distraught when Morôkû vanished, insistent on going to look for him. Ndissê had always thought he took the disappearances too much on himself (they were terrible, yes, but Ingwê did the best he could to protect them, it was not as if they were his fault), thought that he should know by now that Morôkû would not be found, but… it was always a terrible thing, when a child was taken. Which was why, when Ingwê said "I’m going to look for him," Ndissê had simply nodded and said, "I’ll come with you."

(She should have told him _no, you’re being stupid,_ should have tied him to a tree as she’d jokingly threatened so many times before, should have should have _should have-_ )

She still doesn’t understand how it happened. One moment, he was beside her. Then Ndissê went to investigate a rustle in a bush (why couldn’t she have left it alone, why-) and when she turned around he was gone.

She’d searched for him, forgetting (wanting to forget) that those taken were never found in her desperation. Searched, and searched, until Mîriseldê found her and took her into her arms and whispered _Ndissê, I’m so sorry_ into her hair.

It was only then that Ndissê began to cry.

Ingwê is gone, and Ndissê sits in his spot by the fire and stares into the flames and feels as if the Rider has reached inside her and stolen half her very being along with her brother.

She wants to leave, to hunt the Rider with spear in her hand and fury painted on her face - futile, of course, when there is no sign any of the taken have even managed to wound the shadowy being, but Ndissê does not care about that. She wants to leave, but she can feel the fear and horror of the Minjâi around her. Her people have been made fragile by the loss of their eldest and leader - they would not survive hers.

So Ndissê cannot even sate her grief and rage in blood, cannot go after her brother to avenge him or at least join him in the shadowy fate that awaits those taken ( _he is going to be alone, he hates being alone-_ ). Duty keeps her bound to the camp, duty nails her feet to the ground as she stares into the fire and _grieves_.

And yet, life goes on.

Ndissê throws herself into work. She no longer goes on hunts (because she cannot risk herself - because she knows that if she goes, she will find herself seeking out the Rider like moth drawn to flame-), but there is plenty to do in camp. There are bellies that need filling, clothes that need mending, broken spear-heads that need to be replaced - there are children that must be watched, fights that must be broken up, disputes that she must mediate… so many things that Ingwê had always taken care of, so quietly and without fuss Ndissê had not even realised it until he was gone. Ndissê is afraid she does not have her brother’s deft touch with people, feels as though she is blundering in the woods with the sky covered by clouds and no stars to guide her way.

But she manages.

Mîriseldê spends almost all her time with the Minjâi now, a steadfast bulwark at Ndissê’s side. At night, she curls around Ndissê in what is now their bed, stroking her hair without words, and Ndissê is more grateful than words could possibly express for her presence because she does not think she could bear an empty tent. During the day, in any moments Ndissê has to spare, she teaches her to weave. It is not the first time Mîriseldê has made the offer, but now Ndissê is no longer the fleet-footed hunt-leader of the Minjâi who leaves such camp-bound things to others. Now, Ndissê takes her up on it.

She proves herself a terrible weaver, slow and fumble-fingered, which at least means she has a challenge to focus on. One day, she manages to not just get the warp and weft hopelessly knotted but to somehow get _herself_ tangled up in it too. Mîriseldê looks at the utter mess she has made, shakes her head, and says, "I see - a new technique, weaving clothes straight onto the body. Very clever." At that Ndissê throws back her head and laughs, full and belly-deep, in the way she has not since Ingwê was taken-

In that moment she realises that somehow, she is going to be all right.

Not long after, a stranger comes to their camp.

Skalnâ brings him (Skalnâ who has been ranging further and further from camp, something they have had more than a few arguments about, Ndissê furious at the risk). "I ran across him near the pool beneath the waterfall," she says casually. "He followed me home. Seemed harmless."

_Harmless_ isn’t the word Ndissê would use for the man. He towers over the Kwendî around him, his shoulders broader than Skalnâ and Ndissê’s put together, muscles rippling beneath his skin - he looks as though he could break her in half without even trying. More disturbingly, all this is only what Ndissê sees when she looks at him straight on - out of the corner of her eye, he seems to become an inhuman giant of shadow and shimmering light, with great antlers curling out from his head.

And that is not even the worst of it, because there is an air of power around him. Power that tastes of the hunt, that brings to mind wind blowing back Ndissê’s hair and her feet beating the ground as she pursues her prey (she has _missed_ it), the cries of the hunters in their chase and the scent of hot blood from their kill-

Ndissê has the strangest feeling that the body she sees is simply a shell, a vessel for some ancient elemental force far beyond their comprehension.

It is at least true that there is no sign of threat in him, only rapt fascination. Ndissê can feel that it would go very ill for the Kwendî should that change.

_Skalnâ, you reckless fool. What have you brought among us?_

And yet… if this is truly a great power taking their shape for his own whims, what could they do with him by their side? If they managed to make him into their ally, this lord of the hunt and the kill with power far beyond Ndissê’s-

If she can convince him to hunt with her, could he help her bring down the Rider?

Ndissê rises from her spot by the fire (she tries not to think of how at some point in the last months, it has become _her_ spot by the fire), hears rustling as the Minjâi shift to get a better look. The stranger’s eyes - shifting pools of unnatural green that glow with an inner fire, like nothing Ndissê has ever seen before - study her curiously as she approaches.

"Welcome to our fires," she says, dipping her head in greeting. "I am Ndissê." A pause, more habit than anything else, the next words having grown more and more natural as time passed- "Leader of the Minjâi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Primitive Quendian:**
> 
> Ndissê - Indis  
> Ingwê - Ingwë  
> Mîriseldê - Míriel  
> Minjâi - Minyar (Vanyar)


End file.
